The Last Guest

by Tess Little

  “It has, Judy, and I meant it when I said I was sorry.”

  “And I was thinking,” she bulldozed on, “it’s probably not since Rich’s fortieth, can you believe it? Ten years and the time flies by, it flies. I saw Lillie earlier and, my god, she’s a woman! I said, Lillie, you’re a woman now! But, hon, you gotta tell me how you’re doing. How are you doing?”

  Poor Lillie. I would apologize to her later.

  “Wonderful, thank you, Judy,” I said weakly, losing track of the times I had already answered this question.

  “That’s great to hear,” she stage-whispered, “because I was a little worried, you know, wondering whether you’d turn up at all, with whatshisface, Sugar or…”

  “Honey?”

  “Yeah, Honey. You know, it takes balls and I am in awe, you’ve put on such a brave face. If I were you, I’d be staying a mile—”

  “Yes, Richard’s death has taken a toll on all—”

  “Oh, hon, no, not that.” She swatted her hand. “Husbands, you know—you love ’em, you leave ’em. Or they leave you, you know; that’s what I mean—it’s so brave of you to be here with that Sugar here, but I know you’ve got to support your daughter.”

  “Because Honey’s Richard’s partner?” I tried to grasp what she was saying. “It’s no problem at all, Judy—we’re all perfectly amicable. He’s family.”

  Was she talking about the press statement? I did not want to give her the satisfaction of bringing it up myself. If that was the nasty gossip she wanted to shove in my face—at my ex-husband’s memorial, of all places—then let her be explicit.

  “Oh, you are? Oh, how sweet.”

  I could see her little mind recalibrating; she knew I was not going to play. A conversational pause with Judy Debrowski was a home run.

  “Because, you know, I haven’t seen him since Richard’s fortieth either—isn’t it funny how these events bring people back together again? But then, when I saw you both here, I was just thinking, poor Elsie, how difficult it must be…”

  “Richard’s fortieth?” I eyed Judy as she plowed on, oblivious. She obviously had no idea what she was talking about. Honey wasn’t at Richard’s birthday a decade ago. Where would she even have heard that? Were the tabloids reporting this?

  “…seeing the young man her husband left her for in a place of honor at his funeral. When they were only together for a fraction of the time that you were married. It’s a scandal, hon, honestly.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate, Judy, but Richard and I did not break up over Honey.” I was finished with affability, but I laughed as I went on. “He would have been, what, seventeen at the time? Richard and I had many other problems.” I widened my courteous smile. “And you, of all people, know how marriages can become strained over the years.”

  It was such an odd and unnecessary tale for Judy to concoct. Was she punishing me for ending our friendship?

  Perhaps Richard had stopped caring toward the end, but that was nothing to mourn. It was the unlocking of my door to freedom.

  Judy’s eyelid flickered.

  “Yes, my marriage has been strained recently, what with Jerry’s illness,” she said. “But, hon, you know I’m only looking out for you. And that Honey boy was most definitely at Richard’s fortieth. Don’t you remember? He came with that group of young models—I can’t remember who brought them, one of the cast members maybe; it was a wrap party, right? And the models were flouncing around by the swimming pool all night looking pretty. Apart from when Honey disappeared upstairs…I guess, hon, I keep forgetting how out of the loop you’ve been, I mean, you positively disappeared back to New York, so no wonder you missed all the gossip, but it was scandalous how quickly they got together after the party. I mean, we all just assumed that he’d cheated, and can you blame us?”

  I could. Richard and Honey had started seeing each other only five or so years ago, hardly a swift transition. Lillie had grown into a teenager in that time.

  “It’s such a shame,” I said, my voice still light as champagne, “how quickly people turn to gossip, isn’t it? But I guess everyone has to fill their mundane lives with some form of entertainment. I only wish it wasn’t at the expense of my family, my daughter. You remember Lillie was only nine at the time of the divorce, Judy?”

  Nine years old and swept away to the other side of the country: school in Manhattan with Mother; red carpets with Daddy. Speculation about the divorce on every newsstand.

  “But it’s probably difficult for you to remember that when you were so busy with your…” I counted on my fingers. “What was it? Your third separation from Jerry?”

  For once, Judy was shocked into silence. I wondered if I had overstepped the line.

  “Anyway, hon,” I went on, sickly sweet, “let me put it all straight now.” I rested my hand on her forearm. “Richard and I had our own problems, and they were most certainly not caused by a third party. Now I’m going to go and find my daughter. She’s had a hard time dealing with her father’s death.”

  “Hon,” Judy said between air kisses, “think whatever you want. I just thought it might be a stressful situation, seeing Honey here. But Richard’s gone now, rest his soul, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “No.” My cheeks ached. “It doesn’t.”

  * * *

  —

  For years, addiction had been the anvil Richard held over my head. When I met him at Alto’s party, clad in that glittering gold dress, he had just left rehab for the second time—he confessed this to me on our very first night. Told me how he’d struggled with alcohol and drugs ever since his last year of school. Told me the reason why: his childhood, his parents. Told me that somehow he had continued to function, with the help of his manager. Admitted there were still terrible patches, still dark times, and that he had not yet found a way to keep them at bay. He could throw himself into work for a while—become obsessive, controlling, disciplined for his art—but ultimately there would be a period of inactivity and the rot would creep back in.

  “I’m waiting for the answer,” Richard told me, our legs twisted together.

  We had reached the odd hours of the morning, just before dawn, and I could pick out his features in the speckled, murky light. They seemed to change, second by second, like his face was an unknowable thing.

  “I’m certain it’s somewhere. That’s why I haven’t given up hope.” He stroked my shoulder blades, kissed my nose.

  That evening, at the bottom of Alto’s stairs, Richard had given me the manhattan he was about to drink himself. I had kept him sober. I would keep him sober, I decided in that bed, as he whispered his confessions, ran his tongue along my collarbone.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. “My angel.”

  I could not know, as I lay with him then, what would become of this unspoken promise. I could not know that it would become an unspoken threat. That it would be one of many.

  There, in the closet, I drowned out those memories with my own sentences:

  You know what you saw.

  He tried to lie to you.

  A lie cannot overwrite the truth.

  I changed out of the clinging, dirty dress, slicked to my body with the sweat, the vomit. Jeans, a linen shirt, and large, dark shades; ankle boots, matching purse, shaking hands.

  He broke his promise.

  You are leaving for Lillie.

  You know what you saw.

  I left the bedroom without turning back. The addicts did not wake. As I walked away from our home, I was trembling.

  The old Richard would not have let me leave so easily, would have tried to coax me back with sweet lies, would have locked the doors. But this Richard did not really, truly want me anymore. This Richard would let me take our child to the other side of the country and build her a new life. This Richard would not dispute the custody and
settlement my lawyers proposed. He would not even try to contact me. It would only be a year later, once he had been to rehab and undergone regular drug tests, that I would speak to him again.

  And when I eventually saw him face-to-face, at the threshold of a fortress, the man who stood there would be a stranger to me—and that was exactly what I wanted.

  * * *

  —

  Adrenaline surged through my veins as I paced away from Judy. I pushed past mourners, turned my head before they could open their mouths. Tommo, laughing with a group of sharp-suited men, reached for me. I threw off his hand. There were no waiters in the kitchen. Disregarding the stares, I rinsed out an empty champagne glass. Drank the water fresh from the faucet, ignored its mineral bite.

  I needed space, I needed to think. But looking out to the lawn, across the room, everywhere, every cubic foot, was occupied with black-clad bodies. Someone tapped on my shoulder—another guest, unrecognizable, trying to ignite conversation. I flashed a fake smile, mouth full, and shook my head.

  I had won the conversation with Judy. A group of models by the pool, a seventeen-year-old boy…It was ridiculous. It was laughable. I could not have let Judy’s sniping go unchallenged.

  (It was scandalous.)

  What an odd way to get back at me. Or was I supposed to be grateful that she was imparting her precious gossip? Throw my arms around her, weep with gratitude, kiss her orange cheeks, and apologize for my coldness all those years ago, because, yes, yes, yes, she was such a marvelous friend, yes, yes, yes, such a kind and caring soul, and oh lord, oh god, however could I have let her go, however could she forgive me?

  (How quickly they got together.)

  Richard had almost certainly cheated on me before. I was no fool. He spent months away from home. He had barely given me a second look in our last few years together, unless to criticize. But that was not what had happened the night of his fortieth birthday. I had found him unbuckling his belt, and in the morning he was passed out next to whichever idiot he’d convinced to shoot up with him.

  (Scandalous.)

  Or had I just assumed? Richard had told me, early in our relationship, that he was attracted to men as well as women, and while bisexuality wasn’t something people discussed as openly back then, of course I accepted and loved him for who he was. But acceptance is not the same as understanding, and perhaps, in that musty morning room, I had seen only what I thought I would find.

  I needed space, I needed silence. This godforsaken place.

  “Elspeth.” Honey’s hand was on my arm. “Can we talk for a minute?” And then when he saw my face: “You look…Are you okay? Do you want to sit down?”

  “I’m…” I almost did ask for help. But then I paused. It was jarring—his materialization, solid and real, just as I had been thinking about him.

  I tried to pull myself together. We were talking, alone, for the very first time. What did he want? I answered, more collected, “No. I’m fine, thank you.”

  “It’s about Lillie,” Honey said. “I know—she told me you’re not okay with us spending time together, so I just wanted to find you and say now that the memorial is over, I can step away. If that’s what you want, I’ll understand. Honestly, it’ll be hard for me if that’s the case because I missed her when Richard and I separated and—I don’t have much family left, so Lillie’s really important to me. But she’s your daughter and I understand that. I don’t want to come between you.”

  “You’re not coming between us,” I said. What right did he have to diagnose my relationship with my daughter?

  “No,” he said, “I’m sorry, that came out wrong. I meant, like, if you felt uncomfortable. About that night.”

  A waiter brushed past us with a tray of glasses.

  Honey continued, in a lowered voice, “I know how it is. I’ve felt weird all day too, seeing the others, and all I want to say is that I totally understand if you don’t feel ready to trust me.”

  If I didn’t feel ready to trust him? As though I could ever trust him—the murder suspect befriending my daughter? I knew nothing about him, I realized suddenly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, cold.

  The look Honey gave me was not dissimilar to the one Lillie had given weeks ago, when I’d told her I had no reason to doubt Honey but doubted him nonetheless. There was hurt, disappointment. A shrug of his shoulders. “Cool. Okay. Well, I just thought I should offer. She’s your daughter, I know. I don’t want to cause you any problems.”

  I could have said something then, but for some reason it seemed more important to keep myself gathered and nonchalant.

  “You haven’t,” I said. “We’re fine.” Then added, as though I really had no problem with him, “In fact, I was just looking for Lillie. Have you seen her recently?”

  “Sure.” Honey nodded, took me by the arm.

  The crowds parted so we could swim with ease. There was the space—the beautiful, clear, unoccupied floor. When we reached the kitchen doorway, he uncoupled our elbows. We passed through in single file; Honey led the way. And at his neck glinted a delicate, thin silver necklace.

  (He was lying facedown, a thread of silver sparkling around the back of his neck.)

  I had seen him passed out. I had. It was crisp in my mind. He had been sprawled facedown, a thread of silver sparkling around his neck—that same necklace he was wearing today, beneath his formal shirt.

  Yet Kei and Tommo—what of their recollections? They were absolutely certain Honey had not been unconscious on the night of Richard’s death.

  And I was certain I had seen it.

  (His arms were cocked at strange angles.)

  I tried to replay the last moments of Richard’s fiftieth, but I no longer saw where each of us was sitting. I no longer saw Honey lying asleep on the floor beside me, although I remembered everything I had said to the police. It was not a memory—it was a monologue in dead print. Only the rest of the night seemed real: the house, the dancing, the movies, and the pool.

  Was Judy telling the truth?

  (A thread of silver.)

  I had to know.

  Honey turned to check I was still behind him. Frowned as he caught my expression.

  “Honey, when did you meet Richard?” I asked.

  Honey did not answer.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” I said. “That night. At Richard’s birthday.”

  “Elspeth, are you feeling all right?”

  “Not his fiftieth. I mean ten years ago. The wrap party, Richard’s fortieth. You were there.”

  For a moment it seemed as though Honey would not answer. Guests bustled past us; the band played. At the heart of the crowd, we faced each other.

  Then he nodded. “Ten years ago, that’s when we met.”

  Was Judy right? I felt sick.

  “My god, you were”—my hand covered my mouth—“you were only seventeen.”

  Honey’s expression hardened. “With all due respect, Elspeth, you don’t know me. At all. So if you think that you can judge—”

  “You were seventeen.” I felt myself sway on my feet.

  “Elspeth, I didn’t even know he was married—”

  “No.” I shook my head. So Richard had cheated on me with Honey. Judy was right. But the infidelity wasn’t what sickened me. “You were telling the truth. About Richard. I know you were.”

  All those rationalizations over the years—that I could leave my life behind and never look back, that the next person would be stronger…The next person had been a seventeen-year-old boy, estranged from his family, whom I should have protected. Whom I failed again, almost a decade later, when I lied to the world, when I chose to protect our tormentor instead.

  We held each other’s gaze—as we had that fateful morning, when I stroked Richard’s stony neck for a pulse, found none, g
ave the nod—and then Honey looked away. Smiled bitterly. I couldn’t tell whether it was a smile of disgust, disappointment, or vindication.

  “Of course you knew,” he said.

  “But Lillie asked—”

  “Spare me the liberal guilt. It’s too late now.”

  And Honey walked away.

  * * *

  —

  Lillie was surrounded by elderly relatives in the atrium, hands clasped by a great-aunt. I stood a few feet behind the gaggle, alone among the mourners, waiting for her to finish so we could leave this house, with its cursed names, with its cursed crowds, for good.

  Standing there among grieving relatives, I became certain. I knew: Honey had been the person strewn across my husband’s bed on his fortieth birthday, and I had conjured that image to my memories of the fiftieth, that night of champagne and vodka and secondhand smoke.

  Had this, my mis-memory, cleared an otherwise-guilty man’s name in the eyes of the police? I didn’t think so—the other guests, including Honey himself, must have counteracted my testimony. But it changed everything for my own suspicions. Now there was no reason to be sure of Honey’s innocence. On the contrary, I knew he had every reason to want Richard dead. The tentacles, the tentacles…Occupied with conspiracies, I had failed to examine my own memories.

  There was a tap at my elbow. Yola.

  “Please don’t make a scene here,” I said, tired. There was too much already to juggle: stories with only an ounce of truth, memories bleeding together.

  “I won’t make a scene.” Yola was wearing her overcoat, holding her black purse close.

  “What do you want? I don’t— This really isn’t the time.”

  She smiled. Her husband was coming toward us.

  “I just wanted to tell you,” she said, “they found it.”

  If Honey had killed Richard, did that make me complicit? It was my fault they were still together. If only the world had believed Honey when he told the truth about Richard—perhaps he could have believed it himself and found the strength to never return. Was this why I had held on to the memory of Honey lying unconscious, why I had clung to the possibility of his innocence? If I blamed Honey, I could only blame myself.